


we wrestle not against flesh and blood

by BlushingNewb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Flashbacks, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Past Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock's Past, giftfic, none of the negative things between John and Sherlock, past dubious consent, past humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>We all have a past.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day.</em>
</p><p>It was an understatement, Sherlock thought, to say that all was well. For lack of a better word, he was basking in the glow of his new footing with John. But at the back of his mind, something niggled. If he pushed, it flipped lightly to and fro like a cuticle grazing over the insensate fingernail and the perceptive flesh. John’s touch had awoken in him memories he hadn’t been able to delete, and deletion was no more than choosing to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we wrestle not against flesh and blood

**Author's Note:**

> For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickednesses on high.

It was the tenderness in the kiss that was most overwhelming for Sherlock. Being overwhelmed was hardly a new experience - often there was a shocking amount of data to process at one time, neurons firing as a connection was made from one piece of information to another, past knowledge bursting into the present in a conflagration of sudden revelation. But to have such emotional information presented to him physically, binding him by both mind and body, was nearly too much, and he struggled not to hyperventilate.

_caring is not an advantage_

As he felt the strength in John’s arms, however, he was able to work through his short, shallow breaths. The embrace anchored him, kept him from jolting out of his body, and he gathered enough composure to maintain the kiss, though his own lips were shaking. John’s were quivering, too, and the knowledge emboldened him, encouraged him to press forward until they were both gasping for air. When they broke, he put his head onto John’s shoulder and gripped the back of his shirt, twisting it in his fingers.

“Wow,” whispered John, squeezing Sherlock about the waist. “For you, too?”

Then the significance of the moment was fully apparent to John, too. Sherlock didn’t feel capable of giving voice to a response, so he settled on simply nodding. He didn’t want to let go, and was even nervous about tilting his head down to check for the possibility of another kiss. It had been a long time in the making, this kiss; years and years of misunderstandings, of Sherlock leaving, John leaving, Sherlock nearly leaving, and finally, John coming back. Sherlock had welcomed John back with open arms, and they had picked up with friendly, warm touches to one another, that had expanded and deepened until this day, this one day, when Sherlock had been reading aloud his notes about the Tarleton Murders. He had looked up from his laptop to see John watching him with affection from his own computer, smiling at him as he always did, with what could only be called love. His brave, brave friend had stretched out his hand from the other side of the table and placed it over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest and slowly, slowly, he had turned it over to clasp John’s hand in turn. It was simultaneous, what happened next, the both of them almost tipping their chairs over to encircle one another in eager, trembling arms. A warm hand stroked its way up Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair and tip him down, ever so slightly down, so that their mouths could meet. He could sense John’s _heart_ there, and his thoughts chastised him for such drivel, but he knew to his bones that this was true, that nothing had ever been more true.

Which brought him to the present moment, where he was still rather stiff in John’s arms, and the only course of rational action he could decide upon was to clumsily push his lips to John’s again.

* * *

“I can’t believe it,” John said into his ear. “I’ve wanted this, but I couldn’t bring myself to think that you would, too. God, I was so happy when you let me come back.”

“Let you? I...missed you so much, John. You don’t know how much. To see you in our sitting room...it’s _home_ when you’re here.” Sherlock said, stroking John’s hair, silky and wispy at his touch, and he marveled that he could do this now, that it was permitted. They were curled on the sofa together, with John facing him and settled between his legs, a position that allowed for tentative and careful contact. There had been the miraculous sensation of John putting his forehead under Sherlock’s chin and breathing onto his chest, and Sherlock was in raptures at being able to run his curious fingers over John’s shoulder blades to feel them contract and release.

“You wonderful, incredible man,” John said, and kissed him again. “Are you okay with this? You like this...kissing and...?”

Sherlock chuckled.  

“Obviously.”

_oh, you agree to it quite easily now_

They drew even closer together, and the sweet, slow kisses continued. One of them opened their mouth - Sherlock could never be sure  who it had been - and tongues started stroking lips, which began suckling on tongues and John let out a low, needy hum.

_Shezza_

Sherlock felt that hum in his brain, and he imagined it triggering off a series of biological signals, culminating with a command for his _nervi erigentes_ to release their irresistible chemical cocktail.

_we all have a past_

He took a harsh breath, and then another when he realized that he was pushing his hips against John’s body, and that he was also aroused and erect. He felt confident fingers tracing circles against his scalp, and it was sublime and exquisite.

_not those timid brushes over his head, kindly, not forceful, that had made him stiffen with shame and unexpected want_

“Mmm, God this is good. You’re amazing,” John said.

_you’re beautiful, he had said_

John squeezed Sherlock’s bicep  and rubbed soft lips against his cheek. He pressed light kisses to his face.

_not like that one the only one_

Deep kisses again, mouths sealed together, tongues sliding, and John trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s jaw, to the hollow of his throat, thumb fumbling with the placket of his shirt. Sherlock’s heart was about to beat out of his chest because John’s hand was in such close proximity to it, and this was the first time that his own body had ever meant anything more to him than as a convoy for his brain.

_you're lying, there was that time_

Their hands wandered more freely over each other’s bodies, exploring. Sherlock slowly ran a hand down from John’s hip to grasp at one cheek of his buttocks and relished the sensation of him clenching and thrusting against his body. They would have continued in this vein were it not for the sound of Lestrade’s footsteps.

To Sherlock’s surprise, John did not leap away from him. Rather, he let out a resigned sigh and settled beside Sherlock in a position that was clearly intimate but not sexual. Sherlock’s pulse leapt as he realized that John was openly displaying his affection for him in this new way, and would keep doing so unless Sherlock told him otherwise. Sherlock took John’s hand and linked their fingers together.

“Good afternoon, Greg,” John said as Lestrade walked into the room. Sherlock could tell that Lestrade noticed the difference, but the lines beside his eyes visibly smoothed out in what Sherlock had come to learn was relief and happiness. It wasn't actually a large surprise to him, Sherlock realized. He had underestimated Lestrade’s powers of observation. Was it the time John had placed his hand at the small of his back that had given them away? Or was it Sherlock holding John’s coat out for him while he put his arms inside of it? Those small gestures had been public, had crept into their exchanges and had become natural for them. Small wonder that Lestrade wasn't nonplussed to see them together in such a manner.

It was with reluctance that they broke away from one another, but It turned out to be an interesting case that Lestrade had brought for them after all. John was the first to rise from the sofa to fetch their coats.

* * *

As it happened, there had been no crime committed at all, and the case had taken less than five hours to solve. The missing person had been located in his newly purchased Regency-era home, having knocked himself unconscious while investigating a secret compartment he had discovered, and all was well.

It was an understatement, Sherlock thought, to say that all was well. For lack of a better word, he was _basking_ in the glow of his new footing with John. But at the back of his mind, something niggled. If he pushed, it flipped lightly to and fro like a cuticle grazing over the insensate fingernail and the perceptive flesh. John’s touch had awoken in him memories he hadn’t been able to delete, and deletion was no more than choosing to forget.

They reached the flat just as the sun was letting go of its last hold on the day, and after removing his coat, Sherlock gave John a tentative smile. He wanted to throw himself at the man and cover him with a flurry of kisses, bare him, caress him, and ideally, bring both of them to climax, flooding their bodies with endorphins. He was startled at the suddenness of his lust, although a number of fantasies about his dear friend had intruded into both his waking and slumbering hour, step by step.

_ghosts_

Sherlock had gradually surrendered to the sentiment that John had nurtured in him and for the first time was letting the tides of emotion flood his body.

_not true not true_

_not true not true NOT TRUE_

“Alright, alright, it isn’t true!” Sherlock said loudly, putting his hands in his hair and ruffling it. John turned to him from the coat rack and raised an eyebrow.

“You ok?” John asked, calmly waiting for a response, and Sherlock mentally blessed nonexistent deities for his patience.

“I...I…” Sherlock realized he needed to sort this out. It was time for him to face his demons and lay rest to them at last.

“I need to think for a bit...about the case,” he said, attempting to lie as smoothly as possible. He stepped over to John and bent to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, wanting to reassure them both.

“No worries,” John replied, and cupped a hand around his cheek. “You good if I start a fire and work on my draft of the Red-Headed thing?”

“No, that’s... fine. That’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, briefly placing his hand over John’s, then turning to his violin for comfort.

* * *

_He had learned that it was always better to go before his supply had completely run out. A faintly lingering high helped him endure what might turn out to be... changing terms of the trade. If it happened to be the case that a favour could replace the need for cash exchange, or a higher price was needed than what he had brought, or if the deal could be sweetened, then it was much more tolerable to go with a buzz._

_It happened so infrequently, anyway. Really, could be counted on one hand. It had been so boring the first time that it was easy enough to dissociate himself. When he had first been asked he had an initial sense of alarm over being completely inexperienced, but it became clear that absolutely no prior knowledge was required for success. Since then, there would be a detached request and then the recipients were relatively quiet, sometimes silent, so no harm done, truly. Sometimes the fools had even been so grateful that they’d thrown in a bit extra or given a discount. They’d usually scurried away quite quickly afterward, and it was possible that they were ashamed at being blown by a man._

_He wasn’t a moron, he brought condoms, and it was just transport, anyway. There was only the one thing he would ever permit, and it was hardly worse than coming down from the cocaine. That could be ameliorated by the heroin, so it was really best that he ensure a supply of both. He couldn’t be blamed for needing it for his brain. It could be so noisy, or it could be deadly dull, and both conditions were intolerable._

_But Thursday was different. He had lit up several hours before he needed to meet one of his contacts at the designated location (the tiny flat of an acquaintance’s acquaintance, not really belonging to anyone) and he felt unsettled even as he set out. No matter. It was necessary._

_None of his previous dealers were there to meet him, but this had happened before and wasn’t troublesome in and of itself. There were two of them today, though, rather than one. Sherlock dubbed them Red Trainers and Striped Polo._

_“I’ll give you twenty-five percent extra if you’ll suck me and my friend,” Red Trainers said._

_Striped Polo shuffled from foot to foot. He was nervous, why was he nervous? Oh, he wasn’t here because he wanted to be. No, he came with Red Trainers because he was his sister’s boyfriend. Red Trainers had long brown hairs on his sleeve of the exact same shade as Striped Polo’s. The sister was probably an addict, and Striped Polo was perhaps trying to keep her safe by keeping an eye on the boyfriend. Likely wanted to keep her from... doing what Sherlock was doing. Still, twenty-five percent extra. Tempting, too tempting to resist. Fools._

_“Paul doesn’t get enough, maybe nothing at all,” Red Trainers snickered. “Look at that mouth,” he said, pointing at Sherlock, “just like a woman, huh?”_

_It was well enough time for Red Trainers to shut the fuck up, so after quickly verifying that a doubled amount of product actually existed, Sherlock got on his knees in front of Red Trainers. Perhaps if he got the blabbing one done first, he’d leave. He held up the condom, and after Red Trainers wrapped up, he shoved himself hard into Sherlock’s mouth._

_“God, you fucking tart. Gasping for it, you are, you junkie whore.”_

_Red Trainers couldn’t be finished soon enough for Sherlock’s taste, so he did his absolute best to choke himself on his cock to hurry him along. It wasn’t sufficient. The man dug his fingers into his hair and yanked him off and on, again and again._

_“Bet your arse is just as good. How much would I have to give you for that? Or maybe you’d do it for free?”_

_Sherlock heard Striped Polo walk even closer toward the door; the man had already let out several deep sighs and placed himself facing toward the corner. How enamored of Red Trainers could the sister possibly be? Probably Striped Polo had already tried to tell her about the foulness of her boyfriend and she hadn’t listened._

_Some people were so intent on deluding themselves._

_“Take it, you fucking slag, that's it. Take it all, take it…”_

_Finally Red Trainers was done. He softly slapped Sherlock’s cheek as he backed away from him and did up his trousers._

_“Hey, what the fuck did you do that for?” Striped Polo snapped._

_Sherlock glared up at Red Trainers as he worked out the kink in his jaw. Just another hour or so. Maybe less._

_“Your turn, Paul. God, you’ve gotta try it, he’s such a slut.”_

_Sherlock could actually hear the other man swallow as he turned toward him again. For the first time in a while, Sherlock put an effort into looking at another person’s face and body for more than a few seconds. Paul was of middling height, barely twenty, with soft brown eyes and a youthful roundness to his face. The colour in his cheeks was high and his pupils had expanded. Oh, he was aroused. Sherlock was about to scowl in disgust at the man’s sick enjoyment at his degradation when he realised that the man was probably gay. He had spent an hour or so styling his hair into an elegant side-sweep and his fingernails were meticulously buffed and polished clear - self done. He was twisting his hands together._

_Gay **and** inexperienced. _

just like you

delete

_He was actually attracted to Sherlock in spite of his...debasement._

delete wipe word from memory

_Paul fidgeted, digging his hands into his pockets, and Red Trainers gave him an encouraging pat on his shoulder._

_“Go on, fuck his mouth. Look at him, he doesn’t care. This is how it works, mate, it’s what he gets for taking this smack.”_

_With his lower lip trembling, Paul walked over to Sherlock and placed a hand over his hair. Gentle. Tentative._

unwilling

we captive

delete

_Paul was staring at the wall behind him, anywhere but at Sherlock and Red Trainers. But this time, Sherlock wanted to be looked at. Wanted to be seen as a man, rather than as an object. Paul must have sensed it somehow, because he shifted his eyes down to Sherlock's, and the man’s misery was bared to him. Paul’s features were twisted with sadness, self-loathing and desire. Admiration mixed with shame. Something heavy turned over in Sherlock’s stomach. How long had it been since he’d last taken a hit?_

_Paul closed his eyes and undid the button of his jeans._

_“Attaboy, mate!” Red Trainers said._

_“Fuck’s sake, Drew!” Paul exploded. “I can’t do this with you watching and running your goddamn mouth every two seconds. It’s too much.”_

_“Alright, alright, I won’t say another word. I’m done.” He pulled out a chair from a desk across the room, propped up his feet and put on a pair of headphones. He turned away from Paul and Sherlock. Metal music screamed so loudly from the man’s portable CD player that even Sherlock could hear it - the man would be deaf before he was thirty. If there were any justice in the world he’d be dead before then, preferably by slow and painful means._

_“Come over here,” Paul said, beckoning him as far away from Red Trainers as they could manage. He bit down savagely on his lower lip._

_“It’s not a problem,” Sherlock lied, eyeing the packages on the dresser where Red Trainers had tossed them._

_“I... I’m sorry. You’re Shezza, right?”_ _  
_

_“Irrelevant,” Sherlock spat out. “Just get on with it so we can get the fuck out of here.”_

_“I’m still sorry,” Paul insisted, and he stroked a thumb over the place on his cheek where Red Trainers had smacked him. Sherlock shivered at his touch. He pushed Paul’s hand away and instead placed a condom in his fingers._

_Sherlock slammed his eyes shut as Paul opened his trousers. He heard him stroking himself into full hardness before he applied the condom, and Sherlock would have bet that Paul had his own eyes closed._

_Those hands cradled the base of Sherlock’s skull with so much gentleness that it hurt._

that's just not fair

_“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered again, and he placed only the tip of his prick inside Sherlock’s mouth. The man shuddered at once and gasped. It was his first time for this._

agony

_“Oh, god, you’re beautiful. You’re so perfect,” Paul said quietly, resisting the urge to push himself in further. He was shaking all over. With surprise, Sherlock felt his mouth fill up with saliva, and he sucked at the tip of the man’s cock. Rolled his tongue around the glans of his penis._

_“Fuck,” the man whimpered, “oh, fuck.” He ran soft fingertips over Sherlock’s forehead, hardly touching him at all. The man’s control was awe-inspiring. He hadn’t shoved or grabbed in the slightest._

_“It’s not true what he said. You’re beautiful, you’re precious...I, I’m so sorry,” Paul said, risking a slightly louder tone._

_Sherlock was growing hard in his pants._

traitor

_Paul was fumbling his hand at one of Sherlock’s where he had placed them on his hips, and to his own surprise Sherlock gripped it, and entwined his fingers with Paul’s. He sunk his mouth down and withdrew again, and Paul moaned and shook. He was letting Sherlock have complete control. It wouldn’t be long until he finished. Sherlock would ensure that it wouldn’t._

_But the man smelled so nice. He was clean and his desperation had his sweat smelling yeasty and salty._

you imbecilic twat he’s just like the rest

_“Shezza,” Paul said, stretching the ending vowel out with a quiet groan, pleading, praising. No one called Sherlock by this name except to make a demand upon him or curse at him. No one said it with tenderness._

_He was fully erect now, and it ached. This was awful. He was out of control, his body was ignoring him, rebelling._

_“Gorgeous, you’re gorgeous, my god, you angel…”_

_He wanted to weep, wanted to touch himself. No one had ever…_

it **hurts**

_With his mind raging, and in spite of the invectives he was hurling at his own body, Sherlock pressed a palm to himself, rubbing hard over his tracksuit bottoms. He hummed around Paul’s cock and bobbed his head._

_“Oh, please, Shezza, that’s just... that looks so… please make yourself feel good... I want that…”_

fuck should it matter what he wants

_But it did matter. This moment of earnest kindness in a sea of gritty hate stood out to him and his useless body interpreted it as pleasure. It was a siren call he was not equipped to withstand. He took one of Paul’s hands and placed it on his head, and when the man’s fingers reverently twined around in his curls, Sherlock moaned. Paul shook, and shook, and even as he lost control he refrained from thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth and suddenly oh fuck it was more than he could stand, the pressure of his own hand against himself, how long it had been, he didn’t know, he felt, oh, he felt --_

_Warmth spread underneath his palm, and while his body jerked and bucked, Paul was there with him, his hand placed over Sherlock’s where he was still grabbing at his hip._

_When Paul withdrew from his mouth Sherlock looked quickly down to the floor, but not before Paul swept his fringe away from his sweating forehead for him. As quickly as was possible, Paul yanked the condom off to chuck it in the nearby bin. Sherlock rose swiftly and grabbed what he was owed, turning away from both of them to tuck it into his pack. He pulled out a grubby hoodie from his bag and tied it around his waist to hide his shame._

_“Let’s go,” Paul yelled over at Red Trainers, who was still reclined with his eyes closed, zoned out to the blaring music._

_Red Trainers rose lazily and smirked at both of them. “Good times, eh?”_

_Sherlock met his leering gaze coldly and looked at the empty space on the dresser to indicate that he had fulfilled his end of the bargain._

_“We’ll have to do this again, Shezza,”  Red Trainers said. Sherlock wanted to punch him in his smug, horrible face for daring to sully the name that Paul had...consecrated._

you thought you were above all this

_Red Trainers stepped out the door and down the hallway, leaving Paul to zip up, and it wasn’t lost on Sherlock that he was doing so as slowly as possible._

_He was deliberately lingering in the room with Sherlock. Paul approached him, and Sherlock kept his face emotionless, impassive. The wretched man wasn’t going to try to ask him out, was he?_

_“I don’t...I’m sorry,” Paul said._

_Sherlock didn’t answer him. There was nothing he could say, could even think of to say. Forgiveness was out of the question, but to insult the man seemed just as impossible._

_“I wish things were different. That life was better for you. That the world and everything in it wasn’t such a shit-hole. Especially me,”  Paul said, and there was a rasp to his voice that hadn't been there earlier._

_Before Sherlock could stop him he leaned over and pressed a dry kiss to his cheek._

_Sherlock put his back to the man, and without another word, Paul left. He stopped to place something on the dresser on his way out._

you’re just a whore to him after all go get your cash you've certainly earned it **Shezza**

_There were no notes on the table, just a single business card._

       Dr. Marga Al-Sahli, RNMH, MBACP, RMA

       Mental Health and Addiction Counselor

       020 7946 0811

_It wasn’t until Sherlock was back in his room in the doss-house, when he was sure everyone else was gone, that he wept until he could no longer breathe from his nose. He doesn’t remember when the tears actually stopped coming, but he does remember waking up._

no more of this

* * *

Sherlock’s violin sang out the last notes of The Venetian Boat Song from _Lieder Ohne Worte._ John had asked him to play this piece two months after he had moved in for the first time and he had slipped into it now without being aware that he had done so. It was long past midnight and the fire had gone out in the grate. John was nowhere in sight, but Sherlock knew he had withdrawn to his bedroom, because there were soft snuffling noises from above - he had left the door open - and the sound of springs creaking as he turned to his side.

Sherlock rubbed his chin along a portion of the smooth, polished body of his Stradivarius, his only companion during those days. Mycroft had even made sure that he could keep it with him in the clinic since he had gone voluntarily. It was one of The Conditions.

He put the violin into its case with reverence, snapped the latches shut and placed it on the coffee table. Then he laid down on the sofa and pulled the table close to him, near enough for him to wrap a hand around the handle of the case. He rubbed a thumb over the supple, worn leather, warming it.

This was how he had slept those many years ago. Strung out and flopped on a filthy mattress, curled around his violin.

_Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day._

When Sherlock first heard the demands of his body in his youth, he’d realised he was sexually attracted to men. But he learned quite quickly that physical attraction did not translate into a desire for companionship. Almost every time an object of his interest opened his mouth he felt repelled by the nonsense that came from it. And of the few times he wasn’t repelled, it was never long before he ascertained that they would be uninterested.

At any rate, caring was not an advantage; losing Redbeard had taught him that. As he became older, the additional evidence he gathered about the disastrous effects of personal attachment validated his choice to abstain from it all. He thought of his body as only a glorified form of transport, and there was no reason to tie any of its biological needs to sentiment.

Providing oral sex in exchange for drugs was merely the equivalent of allowing a passenger to board for a time.

_we both know that’s not quite true_

But the humiliation and then the…

_admit it_

... cleansing praise had dug under his skin, crawled up into his brain, and he realized now why the memory had persisted. There hadn’t been any physical stimulation that had evoked his body’s responses.

It was his body responding to what Paul had given to him. The gift and the curse of his tenderness.

It was the only shared sexual experience of his life, and it had frightened him so much then that he'd sworn off the heavy drug use, sought out a treatment program and looked for stimulation elsewhere. He'd deliberately put more distance between himself and others than ever before, shutting people down with hostility and exposing their secrets in public.

Until John. John who never ran away, John who laughed in the face of his insults to him, John who was not intimidated by him.

John who praised him for what others found ridiculous, who sought his company above all others, who believed in him, who described Sherlock as the _best and wisest of all men,_ who begged for him not to be dead.

Who came back to him.

And now Sherlock’s body _craved_ for him, ached for his touch, longed to touch him back, longed to feel with his body what he already felt in his heart. He knew that once he shared this with John, there would be no withdrawing from the field of battle.

It was a battle he was ready to lose. He was afraid, but his apprehensions, he now knew, had never been about the longings of his flesh.

* * *

When he woke up to see light filtering in from the window, it was to find that he had tucked his hands to his chest in the night and assumed a fetal position on the sofa. Not one, but two of their sitting room afghans had been draped over him.

John.

There were faint noises from the kitchen and the smell of toast and John turned to him as he wandered over. His face assembled itself into the unique pattern of happy wrinkles that only ever appeared when Sherlock had done something clever. John signaled that he should come closer and Sherlock surprised himself by touching his own nose to John’s.

“Good morning to you, too,” John said, and Sherlock ran fingertips over the crinkles next to his eyes. Sherlock wanted him to greet him again, because the lines next to John’s mouth jumped and rearranged themselves, and he wanted to stroke them, to see how they changed in response to his touch. Instead, Sherlock would probably end up just kissing him, but he realised that his mouth was unappealing. He cautiously backed away from John, rubbing a hand over his closed lips.

But John only seemed to care about the state of Sherlock’s mouth in relation to its proximity with his own. He pulled Sherlock over to him by his waist and their noses bumped awkwardly as they tried to fit together as they had yesterday. When they picked up the rhythm again, Sherlock lifted two fingers to measure John’s leaping pulse in his throat. John chuckled but let him, and Sherlock let out an unrestrained laugh when he felt John’s fingers do the same. He backed John against the counter and put his mouth against his neck, exploring the texture of its with his lips, darting a tongue out to taste the salt.

John gripped Sherlock by the hips but then hesitated. From the tensing muscles of his body, Sherlock could tell that John likely wanted to grasp his backside and grind against him.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, what?” John asked.

“Yes, this,” Sherlock said, and he shifted to press a thigh to John’s erection.

“Mmn, that's good, Sherlock, that's very good,” John murmured, and he reached down to cup and squeeze Sherlock’s arse. “This, too?”

Sherlock nodded and demonstrated his enthusiasm with a filthy, lingering kiss, making his tongue pulse slowly against John’s, imitating something he had done earlier.

“Tell me what you like, Sherlock,” John said when they broke for several deep breaths. “It’s been quite a while for me.”

_trust he trusts you you can trust him_

“It will be a bit of an experiment for us both,” Sherlock said, keeping his tone light. “Before, when I was younger, when I was not as...wise...” he hesitated, not knowing how to finish.

“I’m not going to judge you,” John said, stroking his hair. “As long as you’re healthy, that’s what matters. You don’t have to answer to me about anything in your past, not _anything_.”

“No, I... this, I want to tell you,” he said, his resolve strengthened by John’s reassurances. “When I was using regularly, there were a few times when I gave oral sex in exchange for drugs. It was strictly a business transaction. But then there was a... well, it was different. I - maybe I’ll tell you all of it some other time.”

John reached down to hold his hand and link their fingers. There was one more thing that Sherlock felt he could add.

“He was not... not a bad man. It meant... more. It was terrifying to me that I could feel that way, that I did feel that way.”

John cupped his other hand around his cheek.

“And now?”

“Oh, no, John. I’ve felt for you so long that I can’t remember what it was like without it. I said it was always you and I meant it. Now I want to touch you and feel you, feel you flesh and blood and soul. Souls are not substantiated by science, but if anyone could or did have one it would be you.”

John closed his eyes, and the wrinkles that showed he was experiencing physical pain appeared, but then almost as quickly subsided.

“And you say I’m a romantic,” John said.

“You most definitely are. I will probably regret saying this, but I’ve been schooled by the master. If you’d written my blog on tobacco ash identification, you’d have no doubt found a way to sort them into categories based on the quality of their morals.”

“I thought we’d agreed that your use of tobacco was a bad thing in general?”

“Well, your words,” Sherlock said, brushing his nose against John’s temple. John had dropped his hands from Sherlock’s sides during their conversation. Sherlock placed his hands on John’s hips and tugged him against his own pelvis, kissing him hard. John nibbled in the hollow of his throat, then pulled away to look at Sherlock. Slate-blue eyes ringed with dull gold met his own.

“Hmm,” John said. “Since we are on the topic of words, I think this might be the appropriate time. Finally. There’s something I should say, I’ve meant to say it always and I never have. Since I hope I never have to be without you again, I might as well say it now: I love you. Sherlock, I love you, and love you, and love you, and love you.”

Sherlock crushed John to him, and just when he thought he might cry, he realised that his tears were already staining the shoulder of John’s robe. When his breathing settled, and he was sure he had stopped shaking, he put his lips to John’s ear.

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock said, suddenly taking John’s earlobe into his mouth, making him hiss. “Let me hold you. Let me...”

_ridiculous man_

_ask even if it sounds ridiculous_

_you want it so  
_

“Let me make love to you.”

“God, yes. Yes, Sherlock, yes.”

* * *

They were pressed up against each other with as little space left between them as was physically possible. Sherlock’s newest obsession was gently tugging on John’s bottom lip with his teeth and feeling his chest expand rapidly outward in response. With each harsh breath he took, John’s fuzz-dusted pectoral muscles caressed Sherlock’s and caused a prickling under his skin that migrated to his spine and rippled through the rest of his body.

John was down to his trousers and Sherlock’s shirt was hanging off his shoulders. Sherlock had never fathomed that he was capable of such undignified noises but it turned out that John lightly pinching his nipples rendered him incoherent. John’s physical responses indicated that he found this enormously arousing; he had hooked a leg over Sherlock’s to bring their erections into alignment.

It took some coordination, but they reached a beautiful pace, moderato, thrusting against each other over their trousers until John stilled and backed away. He ran a thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip and trailed his fingers lightly down his sternum, past his waistband, and over his flies.

Sherlock didn’t remember doing so, but at some point he must have grabbed John’s hand to press it hard against himself, because now he was grinding into it with wild abandon, moaning at the new sensation of being touched by a lover..

“God, that’s, that’s lovely, Sherlock,” gasped John.

“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbled, barely listening as he thrust himself helplessly against John’s hand, the fabric of his pants rubbing roughly over the skin of his prick, over its moist, exposed head.

“That’s fucking fantastic,” John said, tracing the outline of his cock. “Let’s... oh, let’s…” he pulled slightly away from Sherlock. He whined as the hand was withdrawn, but then, oh, John was undoing his button and flies for him. As much as was possible with his fumbling fingers, he jerked his own pants down and reached out aimlessly for John.

“You, now you,” Sherlock pleaded. He wanted to see John, wanted to touch his bare skin so badly.

_smell lick taste suck fuck_

Any plans he might have had beyond touching crumbled as soon as he was able to have John in his hand, able to feel the length and weight of him in the circle of his fingers and measure the rate of his quickened pulse. It was John’s turn to let out a whimper, and Sherlock marveled at the delicate texture of his foreskin and the slick, shiny glans.

With a choked-off groan, John stopped him, gently coaxing his fingers off, but not pushing him entirely away. Instead, he placed his own prick next to Sherlock’s, so that they were lined up from base to tip. It was sublime, incredible, and so intimate that he felt an ache blossom deep inside his chest. He was afraid to move his hand, afraid that he would end this exquisite moment too quickly and he froze, trying to stop time. As he struggled for control, Sherlock felt a rivulet of sweat make its way down his neck, and he became aware that he was panting to such a great extent that that he was ruffling bits of John’s hair with every exhalation.

“Oh, fuck, fucking hell,” John whispered. “Good?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stuttered. John took his hand and licked his palm, coating it with saliva, and Sherlock nearly flailed at the sensation of his velvety tongue brushing his vulnerable skin. John moved Sherlock’s hand back to their cocks, wrapping it around the both of them, and curling his own over Sherlock’s.

“Like this?” John asked, moving their hands together, up, then down, and the sudden pleasure caused Sherlock to squeeze the both of them more tightly. Sounds fell out of Sherlock’s mouth, mere syllables, and he could only respond to John by pulling them off faster, taking them past allegro moderato, and his thighs began shaking. John started pushing up into his hand, and he pushed alongside John, synchronizing with him. A hot wave flared up under Sherlock’s belly, and he wanted it to take him down, to bring John with him.

“Christ,” John muttered, and his hand was trembling. “Fuck, Sherlock, that’s it, make us come, make us come…” and before he knew it, Sherlock was doing it, he felt John stiffen and surge and moan, pulsing against him, and wetness spilled on him, covering his fingers, the warmth coating them both, John slickening and heating him, and it was so good to feel John on him, to know he had made him come, and it was so good, John, so good to make them, John, so good so it was so John so it was--

Crying out, Sherlock gave himself over to ecstasy and felt loved, and loved, and loved, and loved.

* * *

Hope and fantasy had been woefully lacking in preparing Sherlock for the experience of wrapping himself around John Watson. His imaginings, he now knew, could not compare to the reality of what it felt like to press his nose into John’s neck, of John’s slightly roughened fingers stroking his jaw, of the joyful sensation of their legs tangling together. Sherlock took advantage of his dextrous toes to curl them around John’s in the tiniest of embraces and was overjoyed when John giggled softly, and he felt his heart swelling, spilling over.

Sherlock knew that after a quick snooze they would probably get up and try to squeeze into the shower together, with hilarious but successful results. They would go into the kitchen and finish breakfast, and there might be a case later on in the day or not. Sherlock would quickly find all the ways that John liked to be touched with affection, and Sherlock would encourage John to ruffle his hair, give him forehead kisses and sit in his lap. Perhaps they would have sex again in the afternoon, and then in the evening, too. And at some point, not today but soon, Sherlock would invite John to move into his room with him, and to bring all of his clothes and hang them next to Sherlock’s so that his could smell of John’s.

“Love you,” John said drowsily, taking Sherlock’s hand and placing it over his heart. Sherlock could feel the rough, gnarled skin of his scar with the underside of his wrist. And as Sherlock fell closer into dreams himself, he thought of the Kalashnikov rifle that had caused John’s injury, the Jezail bullet that had nearly taken him away but had instead brought him to Sherlock. John’s heart had been spared, and in turn, he had shared it with Sherlock, warming him with the constancy of his friendship. And after their many years together, Sherlock had at last found the confidence to grant John a glimpse of his own heart, to show him some of the depth of the loyalty and love he had for him. For now, he would keep his reply to John short and simple, but he knew that he wanted to keep trying, to keep looking for better and more beautiful words so that he could say everything that John truly meant to him.

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> This is a giftfic for my beloved Tenar, a dear friend I have had the fortune to know for 25 years now.
> 
> Beta credit goes to the outstanding DollyBird (Milly69)- thank you, thank you!
> 
> Also, if you have noticed that a Jezail bullet coming from a Kalashnikov rifle is an impossibility, you are correct. Much of Sherlock's subconscious is devoted to the Victorian Era...


End file.
